


we could be heroes

by LittleMissMandalore



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 02:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMandalore/pseuds/LittleMissMandalore
Summary: Guarding the western coast isn't always easy, but the rewards are great. Urthstripe and the Long Patrol celebrate after a successful battle.





	we could be heroes

**Author's Note:**

> For the last week of Tumblr's Redwall Fic month. Prompt: a victory.

            The searats charge him in a group, teeth bared and cutlasses brandished. Their first mistake – for someone with Urthstripe’s strength and reach, clustering together makes it possible for him to decimate them that much faster. He stabs one rat through the chest, pulps the skulls of two others with the blunt end of his spear, and casts the weapon aside, reaching instead for the broadsword strapped to his back. A searat comes up on Urthstripe’s left side, swinging a club, and with one paw, Urthstripe snaps his neck. Then he frees his broadsword from its scabbard and brings it down in a terrible scything arc, slicing through the bodies of three searats and splattering his face and armor with blood.

            He can taste it, hot and coppery in his mouth. Urthstripe licks his lips and laughs. “Who’s next?”

            There are two searats left of the group that charged him, and they turn to run, their paws kicking up puffs of sand as they bolt across the beach. Urthstripe frees his sword from the corpse of the third searat and starts after them, but then he hears the high whine of  an arrow drone past his right ear and he comes to a stop, watching as the arrow impacts between the narrow shoulder blades of one of the searats. The other utters a frightened squeak and picks up the pace. The second and third arrows sprout from him like spines on a sea urchin, and after the momentum that’s carried him forward runs out, he too collapses to the sand.

            “I say, milord,” Bart Thistledown says, lowering his bow as he draws even with Urthstripe, “save a few jolly old vermin for us, why dontcha?”

            There’s a loop of guts clinging to the blade of Urthstripe’s sword – intestines, most likely. He wipes them off on one of the bodies. “If you want a chance at the vermin, get here faster next time, Barty. How is the village?”

            “Barely shaken up. Those diversion fires of yours worked just like you said they would,” Bart Thistledown says. “That seascum made landfall a league too far down the beach, and we made quick work of ‘em.”

            “Is anyone hurt?”

            “Moonpaw’s a little banged up – she took on four all by her lonesome – and everybeast else has some bumps and bruises,” Bart says. “Nobeast’s at Dark Forest’s gates, save the ones we sent there.”

            “Good.” Urthstripe wipes his mouth with the back of his paw and looks down the beach. The searat ship, the one that meant to raid the northern village for slaves, lays at anchor past the reefs, its sails aflame. The otters in the village swam out to the ship, climbed aboard, and slew the skeleton crew of vermin guarding the vessel. No slaves were left – the emaciated bodies that washed up near Salamandastron indicated that the vermin dumped their previous cargo overboard to make room for the fresh ones they planned to take on.

            But Urthstripe and the Long Patrol were waiting for them, and now none of these searats will ever raid a village or take slaves again. He glances down at the corpses near his footpaws. “What is typically done with the corpses?”

            “Burn ‘em, maybe,” Bart Thistledown says promptly. “Some folks leave ‘em out for the seabirds to pick. Others throw the bodies in the sea.”

            There’s something fitting about that, to Urthstripe’s mind. “They thought burial at sea was good enough for the slaves they drowned. Take them to that outcropping and throw them into the water. And send a runner to the village to let them know they’re safe.”

            “Very good, milord,” Bart Thistledown says. He lopes off up the beach, back towards the village and the Long Patrollers, leaving Urthstripe alone.

            Urthstripe shades his eyes and watches the burning searat ship. One of the masts has come down, and the entire vessel is beginning to list to one side. He and the Long Patrol have ended the murderous reign of these wavescum in time to save this peaceful northern village, but too late for the slaves whose bodies washed up on the beach. It seems as though he’s always too late to save someone. He sets his weapons aside and begins carting the searat corpses into the water, hurling them out past the breakers and coating himself in sand and blood in the process. He can’t do anything about the crimson stains on the sand. The waves will take care of them in time.

            When all the bodies have been disposed of, Urthstripe picks up his weapons again and sets off up the beach. The otters who swam out to the ship deserve thanks and praise – they showed more courage than he generally expects from ordinary creatures, and without them, the searats might have escaped to fight another day. He rejoins the Long Patrol. True to Bart Thistledown’s description, they all look at least a little banged up, but all of them are wearing suspiciously identical grins. After seasons of fighting alongside the hares, Urthstripe knows enough for those looks to make him nervous. “What is it?”

            “The villagers, milord,” Moonpaw says. “They’ve invited us to a feast!”

            “We cannot take their food,” Urthstripe says.

            “We aren’t takin’ it,” Oxeye points out. “They offered.”

            “As payment for our protection of them, no doubt,” Urthstripe says, “and that is not how this works. Our protection of the coasts comes free.”

            “Yes, milord,” Moonpaw says, “but we’re all hungry. Nothin’ like a battle to whet one’s appetite.”

            “And they offered,” Oxeye puts in. “Besides, it’s too late to travel back to the mountain tonight. What are we going to eat?”

            Urthstripe should have known better than to come between hares and food. For every objection he raises, they have an answer, and finally he just shakes his head. “All right. We will eat with them. But please try to restrain yourselves. I won’t have you eating them out of house and home.”

            “Cross our paws and hope to die,” Moonpaw says. “I’ll eat as light as a flippin’ feather, see that I don’t!”

            The sea caves that the villagers, a mixture of otters, squirrels, and hedgehogs, live in are warm and bright, illuminated by candles and well-tended firepits. The villagers themselves are friendly – so friendly, in fact, that they won’t hear of the Long Patrollers restricting themselves when it comes to the food. They’ve also taken it upon themselves to provide gifts.

            “Look at me, you lot!” Bart Thistledown says as a young ottermaid settles two armbands made of shells around his wrists. “I look like the grand old king of the sea!”

            “You’ve got pudding on your face,” the ottermaid informs him.

            Urthstripe does his best to fade into the background, but his size makes that impossible. One of the hedgehogs beckons him out of the corner he’s wedged himself into and tugs him to the front of the room. Two more hedgehogs join the young one, and together they hold up a circlet made of jagged shells and red coral. “This is for you, your Lordship,” the young one pipes up.

            Urthstripe studies it. “Thank you for your generous gift. I will be honored to display it at Salamandastron.”

            “Silly,” the young one admonishes, earning himself a cuff around the ears from his mother. “What, mum? It is silly! It’s not s’posed to be displayed – it’s for wearing!”

            Urthstripe takes a second glance at the circlet. “You mean to say this goes on my head?”

            “That’s right,” the young hedgehog says. He pushes the circlet at Urthstripe again. “Put it on, then.”

            It’s not in Urthstripe’s nature to be comfortable accepting gifts. He glances back over his shoulder at the Long Patrol, all of whom are wearing their shell armbands and necklaces and grinning. “Go on, then,” Oxeye says. “Put it on.”

            Urthstripe lifts the circlet out of the hedgehogs’ paws and settles it on his head, feeling ridiculous. He glances at the Long Patrollers again. They seem to be trying to suppress laughter, and not trying very hard at all. With as much dignity as he can manage, he turns his back on them and kneels down so that he’s eye to eye with the youngest hedgehog. “Thank you,” he says. The circlet slides forward, covering one of his eyes, and he pushes it back. “I will treasure it.”

            “It’s a victory crown,” the hedgehog says. “You should wear it every time you win a fight.”

            “Oh,” Urthstripe says, wishing the hoglet had said this a little more quietly. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

            “Oh, his Lordship will wear it,” Moonpaw says wickedly. “We’ll make sure. Every time he wins a fight.”

            The hoglet nods importantly and he and his parents return to the table where the food has been laid out. Urthstripe stands up and the crown lurches backwards again. “Hell’s teeth!”

            “You look like a right proper lord now,” Oxeye says. He can’t even look at Urthstripe without laughing. “Lord of the west.”

            “Guardian of the sand,” Bart Thistledown adds.

            “Searats quiver before him!” Moonpaw says, and they all burst into laughter again.

            In other circumstances, Urthstripe would be annoyed. Now he can’t bring himself to care. It’s so rare that he’s treated as one of the Long Patrol, rare that they include him in their jokes and speak freely in front of him. He clears his throat. “I like it,” he says, adjusting the circlet again. “In fact, I’m going to wear it the entire march home.”

            “Good,” Oxeye says. His ears twitch, and so does his nose – it looks like he’s about to sneeze. A laugh sneaks out of him, and as a result, his next words are barely intelligible. “Guardian of the sand.”

            They all start laughing again, and this time, Urthstripe joins in.


End file.
